


Tumblr Ficlets: Omegaverse

by cranberryloops (orphan_account)



Series: Tumblr Fics, Ficlets and Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cranberryloops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's only two points, the road should be a straight line. </p><p>But how does the road look if there are three?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumblr Ficlets: Omegaverse

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on Dec. 11th, 2012.
> 
> Well, ten days ago I started reading omega!verse. Today I wrote an omega!verse ficlet. What’s next, I ask you?!
> 
> This is the weirdest thing ever guys, it’s omega!verse, and it has a transgender Sherlock. And really, it’s just fucking weird. And the fact it’s even legible is all thanks to Otter, she’s a titan of SPAG, anything that’s still incorrect is just me being stubborn and refusing to listen to her.

Mummy always said she knew Sherlock would be an omega when she was pregnant with him. It was a stupid thought, unbecoming of her, but she was a young mother with an elder alpha son, and she believed in a certain order of things. Sherlock could understand the sentimentality of wanting her second child to be omega.  
But he knew she was wrong. Sherlock was an alpha. Unfortunately, nature was on Mummy’s side.

***

“You shouldn’t go home alone, Sherlock,” Vicky Trevor teases him, with a knowing look. “It’s dangerous for an omega to walk the streets alone this late.”  
Sherlock, fifteen, tall and lanky, hates her. Hates how she smells, and the way he can’t help but notice her delicate, strong fingers. She never lets her nails grow, always trimming them neatly. Sherlock hates her, and her hands, hates himself when he imagines her digits breaching his body.  
She smells like nobody else in their school does, and Sherlock hates her because she’s the symbol of his body betraying him. Vicky’s a presented alpha, and the gentle whiffs of strawberry Sherlock gets every time she passes him make him want to bend down and spread his legs for her.  
Which he never intends to do, for Vicky Trevor, or anyone else.

***

She kisses him once. He wants to say he let her, but the truth is she cornered him against the bricks wall of the school, pressed a smooth thigh between his and moaned into his ear, and he just blacked out for a couple minutes.  
Those minutes he let her use his body in mindless lust were deleted. But the panic his mind went through when he realized what was happening wasn’t.  
“I’m… I’m not,” he said as he pushed her away from him.  
“Come on, Sherlock, I can smell you.” Her voice was breathless, a sweet honey tone that held a promise and a power.  
“I’m not,” he shouted at her.  
“Fine,” she sneered, picking up her bike. “See you crawl back to me when you’re in heat.”

***

“You could pass as beta with a weekly injection and maybe one surgery,” Mycroft offered blandly over dinner when he came back for Christmas.  
“I will not have this talk in my house,” Mummy told him coldly. “Sherlock,” she said. “You should really do something about your hair, it’s unbecoming for an omega to run around like that.”  
Sherlock, in his neutral white button down and ironed trousers, stayed quiet.

***

Mummy bought him sugar-flavoured body powder for his 17th Birthday.  
He sat in the living room, surrounded by her friends, in his suit of black cotton and red lace, with his hair slicked back and his cheeks painted pink, and said “Thank you.”  
He danced with some of Mummy’s younger alpha friends, and smiled whenever someone complimented him.  
“He’ll be a wonderful partner to some lucky alpha someday,” someone said to his left and Sherlock’s head span with nausea during the dance.  
That night he wore his simple white button down and his most sensible pair of trousers and walked out the door. Mummy didn’t wake up.  
Mycroft sent him his graduation certificate six months later.

***

He gets the hormone supplements from a small lab in Southall, and shuts himself in his rented apartment.  
The brutal force of them wrecks his body chemistry with a rage of vengeance. Sherlock lies on the dirty mattress and lets his body shake with want and pain, feeling disgusting and wet.  
The first three times are the worst. It becomes easier after that.

***

He tries to be unnoticeable. He doesn’t leave the flat during the day so no one notices how soft his skin is.  
He eats a lot of oily foods and shaves off his hair.  
He wears baggy pants to hide the shape of his hips.  
The flat is tiny, and heat doesn’t work. He sells all the jewelry he owns, but the money runs out eventually.  
It’s starving or letting his body go into heat, so he doesn’t buy food for two weeks.  
The money runs out completely after that.  
He makes 20 pounds in a dirty bathroom stall at Victoria Station. And then 50.  
“It’s not your real body anyway,” he tells himself in the dirty mirror after.

***

There are two stacks of money in his flat when he comes back, and some brochures. Sherlock throws away the brochures and buys stronger hormone mixtures.

***

More and more people stop noticing him, stop turning their heads when they walk by him on the street. One of his neighbors calls him ‘That beta kid.’  
He’s tall now, almost as tall as he remembers Mycroft.  
He moves to a better flat, with flatmates. He buys books; old, used ones, and stays in his room and reads all day.  
He’s careful about the hormones.

***

He starts going out at night. At first, just to beta clubs, but then one of his flatmates drags him to a new place.  
He meets new people. Alphas who were born betas, men who were born women, omegas who were born alphas.  
“What are you?” the petite, red-headed girl across the bar shouts at him.  
“Alpha,” Sherlock shouts back, grinning.

***

She takes him home that night.  
She feels good against his body, small and delicate.  
“Oh, that’s a nice big alpha cock,” she whispers as she puts her fingers around him.  
“You don’t.” Sherlock pulls away. “I don’t need you to lie.”  
His tone is venomous, harsh, but she just laughs and pulls his body by his biceps to cover hers.  
“Okay,” she smiles. “I’m a beta who likes to pretend she’s a desperate omega in heat. What are you?”  
“I’m not pretending,” Sherlock says, against her hair. “I’m an alpha.”  
She pets his hair for long minutes. Her body is soft and pliant under his and they push against each other, curious and desperate and accepting.  
He ends up staying for three months.  
He learns about sex. About dildos, and vibrators, and knot sleeves, about lubrication and pheromone sprays.  
Mila throws him out when he sets off an explosion in her shower.

***

Sherlock starts investigating murders. He develops muscles he didn’t know his body could have.  
He passes as Alpha on most days, the coat helps.  
There’s always a black car parked at the corner of his street. He’s on his way home one afternoon after a particularly exhilarating investigation into an insurance fraud when he stops beside it and waits for the door to open.  
“It’s been ten years. You look good,” Mycroft tells him.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, it doesn’t sound heavy with meaning, it doesn’t have to.  
“Are you going to do the phalloplastic surgery?” Mycroft asks, shuffling some papers in his lap.  
Sherlock nods.  
“I have collected some names,” Mycroft mentions dryly.

***

The three surgeries take eight months, and at the end of them Sherlock has a real, if maybe not fully functioning, alpha cock, a scar at the side of his chest and a new gender in his records.  
He masturbates in front of a mirror, running hands over the body he was always meant to have, and laughs like a lunatic when he comes.

***

Sherlock starts consulting for the police.  
“Are you one of those androgynous types?” Lestrade asks. “Eh, soft alphas, right?”  
And Sherlock grins in triumph and continues to tell Lestrade how wrong, wrong, wonderfully wrong his staff is.

***

He meets John Watson.  
John is short, and muscular, and has fine sandy hair. He’s lethal, and compassionate, and an alpha.  
“I’m not gay,” John says.  
“We’re not together,” John adds.  
They sleep across the hall, and they share a bathroom. Sherlock is married to his work, but he’s in love with John.  
Sherlock imagines what John would’ve said if he met Sherlock fifteen years ago. It’s a twisted comfort, to know there was a version of Sherlock John could have wanted.

***

John kisses him on an ordinary day.  
“Did you really have to?” Sherlock asks, pushing away furiously.  
“What?” John asks, startled. “I thought.”  
“You thought wrong,” Sherlock snarls as he walks out the door.  
When he comes back, six cigarettes later, John is uncharacteristically cautious.  
“Fine,” Sherlock says, taking a deep breath, stands in front of John and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Fine.”  
John looks up at him, bewildered.  
“I can deal with being turned down, Sherlock,” he scoffs.  
“No,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “We are not sleeping together. Look.”  
He turns and raises his arm, showing John the scar, hoping he doesn’t need to explain himself further.  
“What,” John starts asking, standing up, but bites down on his questions, eyes searching Sherlock’s.  
They breathe together, in understanding. John’s blue gaze is a sea of amazement, surprise. Sherlock would be proud of himself, if it wasn’t heartbreaking.  
“This is my body,” he whispers. “This is the body I want, the body I finally have.”  
“Okay,” John breathes out and presses one gentle kiss on Sherlock’s scar, he takes a step back, lets Sherlock button up his shirt.  
“Letting you,” Sherlock breathes deeply, refusing to look at John. “Letting you want me would mean I,”  
“Fuck me,” John says hoarsely, and Sherlock, startled, turns his head to look at his honest face, bare with desire and acceptance.  
He cups John’s jaw, still studying every feature of that beautiful expression. “Do you not mind?” he asks breathlessly.  
John turn away and just rubs his cheek bashfully against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Not at all.”  
Sherlock laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm not around much anymore, so I won't be replying to any comments, should you choose to leave one. But thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
